My Name Is Jack Tanner
by Finnhart
Summary: Without his memories can a man be granted pardon for his sins?
1. May 23rd

**Author's Note:** So I said I wouldn't post this here. Whatever.

**Warnings:** Swearing I think

**Disclaimer:** I disclaim my use of everything, including all ideas drawn from Alex Bell's 'The Ninth Circle'

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My name is Jack Tanner. Despite knowing this, it feels strangely unfamiliar. Having a name makes me human I suppose, so I am writing it down before I forget it, for as a I pace the small confines of the rooms I find myself in, the name begins to slip from my mind. Forgetting my name so easily unnerves me greatly and I wonder what might be happening or perhaps has already happened to me.

I awoke on the floor of a small apartment. As I cracked my eyelids I could see across bare polished floorboards to the end of the room where I saw splintered skirting boards. There was blood pooling and my head felt peculiarly fuzzy. When I tried to lift myself I found that my face, where it had been resting upon the floor, was glued steadfast by the sticky blood. Grumbling I unstuck myself and rose to unsteady feet.

Suddenly the small, dark room flipped over and I felt as though I had forgotten to breath. I nearly fell to floor once again but managed to keep upright as I gripped the corner of the wooden table to my side, blanching my knuckles. After a moment I allowed myself to sink to the floor once more, hunched over like a baying heifer with my throbbing forehead pressed into the floor. My breath had escaped me, which made me panic and it took several minutes for me to find it. Once breathing properly again I sat back on my heels and took deep calming breaths. I decided that panicking was no good. In spite of my lack of memory and the alienating situation I had found myself in I knew that panicking never got anybody anywhere. This conviction feels deep-set in my person and this warms me – I have beliefs. I am human. I am writing this down too, in case I forget it like my slippery name. Jack…

After my small meditation I ventured to my feet once more. The air stayed breathable but my head remained fuzzy. Ignoring this I stalked through the apartment, taking in all I could. It was sparsely furnished. The lounge, where I had been unconscious on the floor, held only a scrubbed wooden table, a spindly chair and a tartan, threadbare sofa. I moved over to the table where I saw a pile of papers and grabbed a handful. They were merely blank sheets of lined paper, not a thing written or doodled upon them. I saw a black ink pen also; perhaps someone had been intending to write? I frowned and flung the sheets back onto the table, most of them fluttering onto the floor, soaking up the blood. What use were these bits of paper? How was I meant to determine my location? I had hoped it would be the post, bills and junk mail with a name on them. Was I in someone else's apartment? Did I live here?

I huffed and turned around, my eyes coming to rest on the god-awful sofa. It looked disgusting and old, as though dirty tramps had been living on it for a century. One arm of the sofa was adorned with cigarette burns and I saw on that same arm a chocked ashtray, fag ends and ash spilling out onto the material and onto the floor where there were more piles of it. Did the person who lives here smoke? They must smoke a lot and be very careless for it seemed that as soon as the ashtray got full it was simply tipped out onto the floor beside the sofa. I wrinkled my nose, hoping with all my might that I was not the tenant of this apartment. I sniffed the air; it stank of cigarettes, and then I sniffed my fingers and the skin on the back of my hands. They too smelt of cigarettes but I couldn't be sure if that was because I smoked or because the smell was so thick inside the room. With my jaw clenched I ventured through the rest of the rooms.

Eventually I came into the bedroom. The other rooms, of which there were very few in fact, just a kitchen and a small larder, had been as equally fruitless in terms of tenant information as the blank paper in the lounge had been. There were no bills, no letters, no flyers, no newspapers. Nothing. Nothing at all. I became increasingly nervous as the thought occurred to me that I might actually live here but that I might be a squatter. This terrified me – did that mean I was unemployed? Am I a criminal? Am I drug addict? I paused and remembered my earlier belief, panicking will get me nowhere and I settled to believe for the meantime that this was not my home and that something awful had happened to me. I had merely woken up here in a pool of blood. What if I'm a hostage and this is my captor's home?

No, I must not panic!

As I nosed about the bedroom I came across a laptop and a mobile phone. Both looked very expensive and then I pondered the possibility that the rest of the place was so shabby because the tenant spent all his money on these things. I flipped open the phone but it was completely empty; no contacts, no messages, no sent items. Another dead-end. I moved onto the laptop and was thwarted immediately by a password protection system. If this was my home then surely I would know the password? I racked my brains for a memory but found nothing, further unnerving myself. When I thought of it I couldn't even remember what month or day it was, I didn't even know where in the world I was. As a matter of fact I didn't know what I was. For all I knew I could be French or Japanese.

A fresh wave of panic overtook me, which I quickly quelled when I remembered my principle, and I darted to the window and ripped the thin, grubby curtains wide open. I squinted as bright sunlight hit me in the eyes, making me feel like I was being stabbed with long needles. Eventually becoming used to the light I looked down at the world around me. It seemed as though I was looking out of the top floor of an apartment building. An entire dingy city crouched on the ground before me as far as I could see. Tall, dark, ugly buildings like the one I was in perforated my view, the streets were narrow. I recognised nothing and cold dread began to take me once more. I pressed my face to glass to see as far as I could to my left and then to my right, where it seemed the nicer, richer parts of the city were. In the very distance I saw a soaring, sparkling building looming much higher above everything else. Lettering adorned its collar.

_WAYNE. _

Wayne? This was something I did recognise; it was the Wayne Enterprises Headquarters. I felt relief that I had found something in my memory bank, that something was familiar after all. I sighed, I knew where I was and I wrote it down.

'Gotham…'

I shrieked at the sound of the voice and spun about, getting tangled in the curtains. My eyes searched wildly for the source of the voice and I first I couldn't see anything until I moved around to stand opposite a doorframe that I hadn't noticed before. As I carefully sidled over a man came into view, moving equally as cautiously as I was. My breath hitched. He was horrifying. His face was painted completely white and one side of it was smeared with blood which had become black and bitty as it caked off. It had trickled down his thick neck and stained the shoulder of his purple coat. I wasn't sure if it was more blood but it seemed as though he had painted his lips bright red, the line smudging beyond the lips and up his cheeks which looked strangely lumpy. He had painted his eye sockets completely black and dark, alarmed eyes stared straight into my own. I shuddered but was glad that he looked as shocked as I was. As I moved slowly towards him he stepped towards me also. We met eye to eye, toe to toe on either sides of the door frame.

'Who are you?' I jolted in shock as he spoke at exactly the same time as me. His voice was exactly the same as mine and every movement he made was the same as mine. With a terrible chill I realised that I was not standing in the threshold of a door but instead before a large, full-length mirror. I was looking at myself.

Horrified I regarded this stranger before me – this image of myself. He ignited not even the faintest smoldering of recognition in my mind. It hadn't occurred to me before, how could I have not managed to picture my own face in my head? Perhaps it was his flaking make-up, steeped into the furrows of his face and the congealed blood. He looked old and strange. His hair was disgusting, long, greasy and lank and… green? I saw his face change as mine did, after all, he was me. We both looked dreadfully confused. I snapped my head to left and then quickly to the right, almost as if I thought I could outwit him. But it was no use. He was me. This really was my reflection.

I stood back a few paces and observed my attire. It looked like a custom made costume, consisting of purple pinstripe trousers, a patterned shirt, a green waistcoat, a lavender undercoat and the huge, hulking purple overcoat that was now stained with blood. My brown tie was loose and crooked. I bit my lip, frowning when I felt a strange texture. I leant in closer to the mirror again, still wary of my reflection who remained a stranger to me and inspected my mouth. Beneath the make-up and paint I saw that the bizarre lumps were in fact old scars. One split down the centre of my lower lip and a long swooping curve extended from the corner of my mouth over my right cheek. A similar scar adorned my left cheek but this one was deeper and more jagged; it almost resembled a star. I licked and chewed the slick insides of my cheeks and I felt the scars there too.

In a daze I moved away from the mirror and into the bathroom, appalled and mystified by my painted and scarred face. Perhaps I didn't recognise myself because of the make-up? I sincerely hoped that I didn't dress up like this all the time and tried to imagine why I might have dressed like this in the first place. I searched my mind once more. A fancy-dress party? It was plausible. If I had gone to a fancy dress party then that means I might have been drinking, which might explain why I couldn't remember anything. But it was more than the previous night I couldn't remember, it was almost as if my entire life up until this point had been completely wiped away. I had fallen over though, I mused as I touched my fingers to my forehead. I drew back when I saw blood on the end of purple leathered fingers, gloves that I had somehow managed to not notice before. People fall over when they are drunk, this I know. I fell over and hit my head, now I have temporary amnesia. Yes! Yes, yes and yes again! I have solved my mystery!

Feeling like a weight had been lifted from my chest I smiled a little. I now stood before a small mirror cabinet above a grimy sink in the bathroom and faltered when I saw the state of my teeth. I bared them again and gasped. They were ghastly! They were completely yellow, some almost brown. It looked like I had eaten a tube of yellow ochre paint. I was appalled by myself; I must be a chain smoker! Frantically I scrabbled around the bathroom for a toothbrush and toothpaste and after repeated efforts I found none. Once again I hoped and prayed that this place was not my home. What kind of person doesn't have a toothbrush or toothpaste? Someone with horribly yellow teeth like me, I suppose. With a sinking feeling I began to realise that perhaps I really do live in this filthy little hovel.

Sighing about the lack of oral hygiene I decided to at least wash the rest of my body, there was a bath and a showerhead after all. I began to shrug my large coat off when I heard things clinking in the pockets. Curious, I spread the coat out wide either side of myself and stared. Knives upon knives lined my coat! Huge knives right down to small ones. I gaped, totally at a loss. Why on earth did I put all of these knives in my coat? What was I thinking when I went to a fancy-dress with all these things? I peered into the lining of the lavender undercoat and found more strangeness, several potato peelers, a pizza wheel, tweezers, thread and needles. In one of my pockets I found something a lot less threatening and wholly more inviting, a single bauble of Lindt chocolate. It was wrapped in red and I knew it was milk chocolate. I felt my mouth watering but I don't remember any previous favour for these chocolates. Then again when I first woke up I could barely remember my name... Jack Tanner… I must not forget. Shrugging I took the wrapping off, which was stuck to the treat and popped it in my mouth. I melted as the chocolate did and closed my eyes, the velvet bliss slipping down my throat. It was good. Perhaps I'll find more later when I go back to the kitchen. I put the wrapper in the mirror cabinet in case I forget that I like them.

Cautiously so as not to cut myself on the mysterious collection of knives I stripped out of my clothes, dumping them in the corner before leaning into the stained bath to turn the shower on. I twisted the handle around fully but nothing came out except the sounds of clunking from inside the walls. I panicked – no water? That meant no shower and I was certainly filthy. Suddenly a gush of water spewed from the showerhead. It was brown at first and I felt dismayed but it quickly cleared. Content with the non-brown water I let it run for a moment until the hot water came through. I searched for a towel and found one on the railing; it was dirty and stained with something that looked suspiciously like old blood. I shuddered, wary of what kind of person I might be. Then again, I have not yet determined whether this is my home, not for sure. Don't panic just yet, Jack. I then searched for some shower gel as steam filled the room but all I could find was a worn, cracked bar of soap. It will do. I grabbed it along with a flannel as equally filthy as the towel and carefully stepped into the shower.

The hot water hit me between the shoulder blades like a blessing, tumbling over my skin, the strong blast massaging what felt like a life time of knots in my back. I tilted my head back and let the water run over my face and wash the blood and paint away. I looked down at my feet and felt satisfaction, the filth on my body washing down the plug hole. I stayed in there for a long while, scrubbing myself over and over, rinsing my hair and lathering it up at least three times. I wish that I had proper cleaning things. My hair was riddled with knots and I remembered from somewhere in the depths of my mind that I would need conditioner for it, or perhaps I should just cut it. I will go shopping as this is what humans do. I have determined that I am human; I have a name and a belief. I am Jack Tanner and I believe that panicking will get you nowhere. I also have no memory and a coat full of knives and oddities, but I can sort this out later. I know I am human.

Today was May 23rd. I found my name on the inside page of this journal and this was my first entry. I will continue writing until I remember who I am.

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**Author's Note:** REVIEWS PLZ


	2. May 24th 25th

**Author's Note:** So I said I wouldn't post this here. Whatever.

**Warnings:** Swearing I think

**Disclaimer:** I disclaim my use of everything, including all ideas drawn from Alex Bell's 'The Ninth Circle'

**May 24****th**

I opened my eyes on the dot of 5.30am. I did not sleep well last night. I was afraid that if I fell asleep I might wake up without my memories again, that I would have not only forgotten my entire experience of life up until yesterday but also that very same yesterday and all my efforts to discover myself, my name, my face, everything. What if I had woken up in the same place? I would have to un-stick my face from the floorboards again, roam around leaving bloody footprints behind me, only to discover my gruesome reflection and then panic when I can't find any toothpaste.

But all is well, for the moment at least. Well, temporarily. I felt magnificently better when I groggily woke up to the sounds of sparse morning traffic on the streets far below my open window and birds twittering as they flitted about in the air outside the window. I wasn't on the floorboards of my dingy lounge with my face glued down with my own blood, nor was I dressed in that gaudy purple suit and oily make-up. I had fallen asleep comfortably naked in my bed, a wonky-framed, unsteady small double bed to be exact. I wrinkled my nose at the musty stench of slumber, tossed the thin (blood and cum stained, I noticed) sheets aside. I welcomed the breeze wafting through my window. I blinked in confusion; I didn't remember opening the window but that didn't really bother me; I don't really seem to remember a whole lot of things at all. My life began yesterday.

I shuddered through a stifling yawn and staggered into my small, grimy bathroom. The complaints from my bladder cheered me somewhat, they further reinforced the conclusion that I had drawn yesterday, that I was human. I'm a human called Jack Tanner and I need to take a piss. Remembering my name so easily as I relieved myself made me smile at the gritty tiled wall above the cistern. The scarred corners of my mouth curled from the smile into disgust when I saw black mould flourishing along the grouting. I will have to buy something to clean that off. I will have to buy something to clean me off as well; the dry, cracked bar of soap I found yesterday didn't seem to do a lot at all. Yes. I will have to go shopping today.

When I stepped back to clean my hands and splash my face with cold water I caught sight of the clothes I had been wearing when I woke up yesterday, dumped in the corner and subconsciously avoided like the corpse of a rat. I faltered, some water dripping off the end of my nose and some nestling in my eyelashes. I didn't really know what to do with them or the hoard of knives stashed in the pockets and lining. If I had gone to a fancy-dress party then perhaps I hired the suit? I bit my lip; the suit was covered in blood now. From the murky depths of my mind I knew that blood was a terrible stain to remove from clothing. Maybe I should just throw the suit away? I stalked over and stooped to pick up the large, purple jacket. The knives clanked menacingly. What should I do with them? If I throw the suit away I can't very well throw the knives out with it.

One by one I removed them, entering the bedroom and placing them methodically, almost obsessively in a neat, size-graded row along the table at the end of the bed, lined up perfectly with the side of that password-protected laptop. I put the largest knife next to the laptop but I ran out of table-space before I even got round to the small vegetable knives and potato peelers. I faltered for a moment, chewing on my scarred, lower lip. I grimaced at the bobbly texture as I decided to start a second row below the first one. It nearly matched the first row in length before I got to the pizza wheel, which looked terribly out of place no matter where I placed it and how I positioned it. I felt strange that this irked me so horridly. Why can't the pizza wheel fit in with the rest of the knives? It is an outcast, a misfit that stands out like a fat man in Auschwitz. Agitated I just put it on the end by the last and smallest potato peeler and tried not to look at it. What on earth would I be doing with all these things? Pockets filled with blades – why, I must be a chef or something.

I sighed and rubbed the heels of my palms into my eyes. I decided that it would do me no good to neurotically ponder this, no more good than panicking would do me, but unlike the panicking the neurotic pondering was not so easily abolished from my mind. It was not as steadfast a belief. I shook my head and rounded upon the wardrobe at the end of the room. I opened it up and hoped I would find a better taste in clothing than purple jackets and green waistcoats. There was a sizeable collection of clothes, though the taste in fashion seemed strangely varied. I felt my heart grow cold a few times as I rifled through them, finding several garments that were marred with old, brown blood. I tried not to think of the knives on the table behind me.

I tried on a few things and although I managed to get into everything that I picked out nothing seemed to be the same size. Some things were far too big for me; it was as if none of these clothes actually belonged to me. I scowled blackly at the contents of the wardrobe. Of course, I haven't actually determined whether this is my house or not. I cricked some stiffness from my neck. Then again, if this was the home of someone else would they have not returned by now, especially with such an expensive laptop and mobile phone left here? I decided not to panic but couldn't stop wondering. I need to re-scour the house for proof of whether I live here or not, everyone gets bills and letters from the taxman, right?

I think I tried on nearly everything save for the blood-stained items and eventually settled for some faded, paint-dripped jeans which fit the best of all the trousers in the wardrobe and a long-sleeved tee which looked as though it might have been black once, but had faded to a ghastly looking greenish-grey. Holes had appeared at the seams in the neck and the elbows had worn away, leaving large, thread-bare holes. The cuffs looked chewed.

Sighing, I gazed into that long mirror on the wall where I had first discovered myself, bloodied and dressed-up like a nightmarish mobster clown. I shuddered when I remembered the image of the panda eye-sockets and the red lipstick smeared over the scar on my cheek. My long, bony hands snaked their way up to my face, the rough pads of their fingertips ghosting over those lumpy disfigurements. I poked my finger into the star shape on my left cheek and met the intrusion from the inside with my tongue. Fingertip and tongue kissed idly through the wall of my cheek, exploring every facet of my blemish. As they danced the index and middle finger of my other hand had been tracing back and forth along the plunging arc of my other scar, a smoother and cleaner cut. I had been doing this for a couple of minutes before I realised that my tongue had been periodically darting out of my mouth, coiling around the corners of my lips. And old reflex from the healing period I presumed in order to calm myself at the disturbing sight of my subconscious habit, but still, my reflection was beginning to haunt me, even without the blood and make-up.

Dismissing my disturbances I clenched my teeth and grabbed a thick woolen hat and pulled it over my scalp to hide my disgracefully filthy hair, the grease barely shifted by that weak bar of soap. However I was at least contented that I looked ten times more normal than I had yesterday. I moved through the house, a strange tingling in my skin at the thought that I was going to get out of this den and into the world just like a normal person. A normal person, albeit greasy and scarred, called Jack Tanner. My mouth smiled a little when I managed to pluck my name from my memory as easily as plucking a dead leaf from my shoulder. As I loomed towards the front door, my hand outstretched and hovering over the door handle, I realised something. How stupid of me to forget, how _could_ I forget? I have no money! I recoiled from the front door as though it had offended me, glaring at the knots and lines in the cheap veneer.

No money! I snarled at my stupidity.

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**May 25****th**

5.30am on the dot, it's strange that I have woken up at this time two days straight despite the fact that the flickering digital clock does not sound an alarm for me.

I frightened myself yesterday. After I realised that I had nearly stepped out of the door to go shopping without even considering whether I had any money or not, I had grown inexplicably furious. An alien rage and scorn for my lack of thought had slowly simmered within the deep confines of my ribcage until it had bubbled through the gaps, melting through my intercostals and sizzling through my skin to the surface. I remember spitting and growling in the most animalistic manner. I dived upon my twin row of knives and flung them around with a terrifying skill, a skill drawn from somewhere inside me that I didn't know existed. The blades sliced through the air neatly. I embedded a few into the peeling wallpaper on the other side of the room above my bed and stabbed one of my pillows repeatedly with a potato peeler in each hand, shouting _'fucking, fucking little fucker!' _as I did so. I spat on the pillow and ripped it in half with my hands, a cloud of feathers exploding over everything. I accidentally inhaled a mouthful. I think it was my choking and coughing and the thought that I would be killed by the innards of a pillow that brought me back into a saner state of mind.

I stayed hunched over on all fours for a while, spluttering and snorting, spitting feathers over my floorboards. My name is Jack Tanner and I was nearly killed by pillow feathers. I guess some mothers do have them.

After my disconcerting outburst I somehow found myself standing before my mirror once more, something lackluster about my posture and expression. I had felt stifled, the stench of my rage still hung in the air around me like fading noxious fumes, I felt like I couldn't breath. I peeled my clothes off as if they were made of melting plastic. And there I was, only myself and my reflection in the room together, nude and confused. I stared deeply into my eyes. They were a dull like mud and so dark and blank - I think someone has sucked out the middle of my eyes and left a gaping vacuum behind. I think they might have accidentally sucked my soul out whilst they were at it.

I knew I was human, but was I a person? I don't know how to find out if I am a person. I know what type of humans _aren't_ people, the kind who love nothing and care for nothing, the apathetic kind who have zero empathy, the kind fit for murder and terrorism. These un-people don't seem to have too much in common with me… but how would I know…? I, a man who looks no more than twenty-eight years of age, have only known myself for mere days. I woke up wrapped in blood and knives. My face was painted. Was it a disguise, am I criminal in hiding? If I had really gone to a fancy-dress party that would suggest I had friends. No one had knocked on my door or rang me on my empty mobile phone. If I have friends wouldn't they have come to jeer at my hangover and laugh about our drunken hilarities?

I swooped from stifling to cold. I had gooseflesh. I think I might be a bad person.

I leant down and took the pizza wheel from the floor where I had knocked it with trembling fingers. I didn't even notice how dirty and horrid my long, cracked nails were, I felt like I didn't care. I forgot about the aching scab on my forehead, the grease in my hair, my stink and my scars. I turned back to the mirror and moved closer, staring at myself. I was covered in scars. I was just one big, walking scar. Some were barely noticeable, just faint, silvery spiderwebs over my skin and some were deep, the tissue raised and puckered. I'm hideous. With the pizza wheel I lightly traced a track over every scar that I could find, running the not-so-sharp blade back and forth over each one until I had adequately investigated and catalogued it into my near-empty memory bank. What can a human be if he doesn't know himself? Once I know myself I can find myself. I hope I'm not a bad person.

The scattered knives and blood-stained clothes in the wardrobe cast doubts over my mind.

But that was yesterday, and I had traced all my scars over and over until the sun was long gone. Still nude I pulled my window to and clambered into my bed, sweeping the loose feathers away. When I woke my window was wide open again. It worried me somewhat, though perhaps it is just the wind – maybe I sleep walk?

This morning I pulled on the clothes I had chosen for myself yesterday and moved into the kitchen. I thought of looking into the lounge for more clues about myself but the contents of the room were minimal, there wasn't even a bookcase. There were plentiful cupboards and drawers in the kitchen and I set about searching each one.

As I rummaged around I realised that I had eaten nothing since that day I woke on the floor, nothing except that delightful bauble of milk chocolate Lindt which I had found in my pocket. I had come across an unexpectedly large supply of these chocolates in one of the top cupboards, eight boxes in fact and all different flavours, coloured correspondingly. I surprised myself. Bad people don't eat or enjoy nice food, do they? Serial killers and terrorists don't indulge themselves with such blissful treats… I took each box down and arranged them on the side. Red for milk chocolate, brown for hazelnut, blue for dark chocolate, purple for amaretto, green for mint (I immediately took two and ate them), orange for peanut butter, pink-red for raspberry (I ate one of those, too) and pale yellow for white chocolate. Yes, I really surprised myself. I selected a few more, resolutely ignoring the amaretto and peanut butter ones and put the boxes back in the cupboard where I had found them.

Asides from the Lindt there was very little else to be consumed. Mustard powder, some bottled sauces, a very old, stale looking wine, an onion which had overgrown itself with shoots having been left alone for so long, a jar of something that had developed fluffy mould and an empty packet of breadsticks. I grimaced. I was beginning to feel very hungry indeed. I had a terrible, bizarre craving for red meat, I want a fat steak, rare as you like. I clenched my fists, those nails digging into my palms.

I hunted around some more and found something almost as exciting as food, a drawer stuffed full of papers. I grabbed handfuls of them and pulled them out onto the side feeling quite giddy with glee, huge stacks of what I hoped to be more clues to who I am! I flicked through them. I almost choked when I thought I had just found more blank, lined paper but soon I began to see things written on the paper; doodles and cramped, rushed notes. There were peculiar blueprints but these didn't interest me, I cast them aside and concentrated on the notes. There were reams and reams of them, all stapled together. I couldn't read the writing so well but the little hasty diagrams that accompanied the writing on every other page fascinated me. Whoever had written this had a wild imagination, he had doodled the strangest looking tank I've ever seen, at least that's what the writer refers to the vehicle as. He had labeled it 'Tank, aka TUMBLER'. The drawing is smudged.

I flicked through some more pages - he had drawn what seemed to be a motorbike version of 'The Tumbler' and labeled it 'Bike, aka BATPOD'. I laughed to myself; this guy had a wonderful mind. I began to decipher some of the notes, squinting my way through the excruciating detail, lapping up the entertainingly fanciful twaddle. He writes about a figure called _The Batman,_ a notorious and hellish character who dresses in bat-like armour and swoops over Gotham with the aid of a cape made from strange material, spreading out behind him like a midnight hand-glider. His nemesis is _The Joker,_ a character who the writer seems to favour and writes about in a purer light. I scanned madly through the notes, gripped by the fantastical nonsense. Before I could turn to the next page however I had leant onto the side, slipped and a flurry of paper littered the kitchen floor. My snarl stumbled over itself and turned into a choked gasp – I saw money on the floor, poking coyly up at me from underneath the other papers. I dived for the notes, scrabbling to collect them all until I came across the envelope they had been stashed in. I peered inside.

Oh my… I have a lot of cash. When I felt myself beginning to doubt where on earth this money had come from – there was an excess of several thousand I estimated – I blocked it from my mind and stuffed handfuls into my pockets, grinning madly.

My name is Jack Tanner, I have a lot of money and I'm going shopping. I will write about my adventures outside of the den when I return.

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**Author's Note:** REVIEWS PLZ. I am holding this mofo at ransom, because I'm like that. You won't get part 3, which is already written, until I have a total of 20 reviews for this fic. I'll probably change my mind later and post the next chapter even if this doesn't hit a scant 10 reviews but... let's see if you can actually do it :3


	3. May 27th

**May 27****th**

Every morning when I wake up at 5.30am my window is wide open. For the first few days of my new existence this did not bother me, I hardly remember anything at all, so not remembering how or when I ever open my window in the middle of the night when I ought to be sleeping wasn't much more than a little fleck of dust of my worry radar. But now it is bothering me, ever since my escapade into the world outside. I thought that worry and panic were bad for a person and I was right. I feel like I'm shrinking in on myself; if I don't do something soon I might end up as a skeleton, vacuum-packed inside my own skin, creeping around and feeling frightened to step out of my door again.

Two days ago I left my den with a wad of the suspiciously copious amounts of money I had found in the kitchen drawer, dressed quite normally I thought and feeling optimistic about going out into the world. I cannot express the excitement I felt, because I had been of the idea that I might bump into someone who might know me. I had a combination of every single type of nerves a person can feel. I had butterflies in my stomach (they felt more like cannon balls), tingling fingers, tingling skin, tingling everything! I was so giddy with adrenaline I nearly fell over as I walked down the corridors of the apartment building – I even had to bend over in the corner at one point when I thought I was going to be sick.

After that had passed I fell into a moment of stillness and that was when I realised something very strange – the entire place was absolutely silent. It is a cheap, shabby block of apartments with thin walls and I would have expected to hear the noises of the other tenants, people who had too many children, unemployed drunkards, cats and dogs perhaps? Mismatched married couples arguing about the bills? But there was nothing, the place was dead. I hesitated. Had everyone been evacuated? Was there a fire on one of the floors and I had simply and stupidly been completely unaware of it? A bomb scare? Chemical hazards? Maybe there's just a big parade on today... I suddenly wanted to get away from the building as quickly as possible. It was a sunny day and I almost ached to feel the warm light on my skin.

I ran to the nearest elevator and yelped when I discovered that the doors were open and the elevator itself was resting on a level far below this one, its thick cables plunging into the darkness where I could not see. That terrifying rage returned to me, a vile brutality making my fingers twitch. With a shout I punched the controls on the wall leaving a smudged blood stain behind. I spat at it for good measure and took off like a wild hare towards the steps, running and running around and down them. I made myself quite dizzy by the time I reached the bottom; apparently I live in an apartment on the topmost floor. I belted towards the entrance, promptly rebounding off the door and landing on my back, clutching my forehead.

It was locked! I'm Jack Tanner and I live in an... _abandoned_ apartment block? An abandoned apartment block with broken elevators and locked doors! The strangeness of my situation ripens by the second. I was not unnerved by this as I thought I might be or as I nearly was when I first suspected it, as a matter of fact the very thought of the solitude that I am existing in holds a peculiar appeal about it. I rather enjoy the thought that I have an entire block of apartments to myself.

Despite this it still didn't explain how I was meant to get out. I hunted around the ground floor and it wasn't long before I discovered a double-door fire exit near the back of the building, nestling in the shadows. My hands fell hard upon the release bar and a swamp of thick, heavy sunshine flooded over me. I threw open the doors wider, they crashed against the outside walls and I just stood in the threshold for a moment, letting my head droop backwards, my chest swelling with delight.

God I love the sunlight.

I didn't really do much for a fair while after that, all thoughts of shopping and acquaintance hunting were temporarily lost from my mind as I simply strolled along the streets, gazing at all I could see around me, staring at all the people. I swallowed every face I saw, a long face with a big nose, a round face with small eyes, faces with wide smiling mouths, thin unhappy mouths, blue eyes, green eyes, acne, make-up and stubble. It was like an open zoo or a human safari; I was walking amongst strange beasts.

Fascinating though these fellow inhabitants of Gotham were I was coldly grounded by my hunger. I had barely noticed my stomach grumbling and grousing at me as I waltzed aimlessly around but I couldn't ignore it for much longer, no matter how enthralling the world around me may become. I saw a café and made a sharp beeline for it, nearly running headlong into a car as I dashed across the street. Like I say, some mothers do have them.

I chose to sit outside with the meal I had ordered – I chose one of their most expensive dishes; a 14oz fillet steak, blue to rare and peppered, accompanied by tomatoes and mushrooms fried in butter, shining and dripping, a large mound of herb potatoes and finally a trio of spiced onion rings. I clutched my knife and fork, consumed by glee – a feast! I felt like shouting. It's a _feast! _In a moment that nice waitress will come with my drink, just iced peach tea. I tucked into my glorious meal, enjoying every mouthful.

When I was about half way through my feast I realised that a woman who was sitting on a little table near mine had been eyeing me strangely, if I was not much mistaken I think she looked a little disgusted by the sight of me. My heart skipped, was it the scars? My tongue absently skimmed over the marks that I could feel on the insides of my mouth. I decided to ignore it and carried on eating, but she would not stop looking at me with that face of utmost repulsion, well, mild repulsion I'd say, but still! I was staring at the edge of my plate but I could just about see her in the very edges of my vision, what's wrong with her? I thought for a moment as I turned my eyes to another diner, watching how he sliced his food and smoothly transferred it from plate, to fork, to mouth. To be honest I hadn't been paying much attention to how I was eating. As I moved on to finish the last of the steak and some of the potatoes I was horribly aware of what I was doing with my cutlery and mouth. With a short, sharp jolt of panic I realised that I had butter and oily steak blood all over my chin and as I put a forkful of meat into my mouth I realised that I was chomping on it in a terribly beastly manner, with my mouth open, making all sorts of nasty, squelchy noises. No wonder that woman looked faintly ill by the sight of me – she's gone now, she didn't even finish her own meal. Oops.

I wiped my chin and was mindful from then on to keep my lips locked together when I chewed. It was a surprisingly hard task; from deep inside me I felt a need to carelessly devour my food like a dog. I buried it, associating it with that awful man who had emerged from me the other day when I trashed my bedroom and choked on pillow feathers.

Unwillingly lost in my memories of that little episode I then spotted someone else sitting in the outside café area who was eyeing me oddly. I pretended that I hadn't noticed as I took a swig of my iced peach tea. I realised he wasn't alone, there were three of them, all sat around one of the small round tables and all looking at me. The apprehension suddenly drained from me – they must know me! Hurriedly I tucked a wad of notes under my empty plate to pay for my meal and to tip that nice waitress, glugged the remainder of my drink and quickly made my way towards them, snaking awkwardly between the other customers and tripping on a few handbags. To my surprise the three men suddenly look extremely frightened as I ploughed towards them; they leapt from their seats and darted from the café area but did not run away completely, stopping several hundred yards down the street. I followed them, confused by their fear, perhaps they didn't recognise me? What do I normally wear, what do I normally look like? Maybe they've never seen me in a hat before. I ran after them at a breakneck speed which felt delightfully effortless and I caught up with them easily, skidding to a halt beside them. They were all out of breath, either from the strange panic they had displayed or from their short sprint. I on the other hand felt exhilarated, surely they must know me! Else why would they have stopped and turned to face me? I grinned at them. They visibly shuddered. One spoke in a rushed whisper.

'_Boss, what are you doing?' _

My face fell and an icy chill filled me. _Boss?_

'Um –' I stuttered and floundered for something to say. 'I was... getting a meal –'

'_Boss!_ The _whole of Gotham_ is looking for you!'

That was it. I'm a criminal – I must be a criminal _mastermind_ if the whole of Gotham is looking for me. I gazed into each of the mens' faces, quite shocked, just as much as they were. They were beginning to look very confused in fact, as if they were befuddled by my behaviour. I didn't know what to do. I stared at them, totally lost.

'I'll – well I'll go home shall I...'

With that I turned and high-tailed my way back down the street, leaving three rather dazed... acquaintances? Friends? Colleagues? What were they? They called me Boss. I hope they're not, how should I say, my _goons. _My cronies, my hired thugs.They seemed somewhat frightened of me; I hope I was never mean to them.

Somehow I remembered where I was going as I dashed like a mad thing between all the people littering the walkways, dodging prams, knocking into moody looking business types and generally causing a bit of a whirlwind in my wake. Suddenly paranoid I turned to look over my shoulder as I ran, convinced that an entire battalion of law enforcers in shining riot gear were chasing me, waving spiked batons and pouring molten fire from their mouths.

Unexpectedly I then found myself on the floor, flat on my back and slightly dizzy having just bowled into a body. It was a man and he stood over me, looking quite concerned.

'You okay, son?'

I stared up at him through bleary eyes, he seemed friendly enough, so I smiled at him. His eyebrow tweaked.

'I'm fine thanks,' I said, suddenly wary that he didn't return my smile. 'I'm just, ah, late for something.' I smiled again. His face didn't change but he extended a long, weathered hand to me, which I gladly took. He hoisted me to my feet, staring at my hand which was covered with dried, brown blood from where I had punched the elevator controls. He said nothing. I dusted myself off and found myself staring into the face of a man who was just a little shorter than me; he was wiry and neatly dressed with greying hair and a rather bushy moustache. His twinkling but tired looking eyes gazed almost suspiciously at me from behind a pair of spectacles.

'Something important?' he inquired, keeping his tone light. It took me a moment to find my voice, I had a nasty feeling this man recognised me, and for all the wrong reasons too.

'Oh, well,' I said, trying to look quite tired and fed-up myself. 'It's the not the end of the world if I miss it.'

The man smiled ever so slightly, ruffling his moustache.

'Certainly looked otherwise, the way you were running down the street. You sure everything is all right?'

'I'm fine, really.' I added another smile and his eyebrow furrowed even deeper. He spotted something on the ground between our feet and he stooped to pick it up. As he bent over I saw a dark shape underneath his jacket, it was a holster, a dark gun nestling against his side. That chill returned to me, if I am a criminal mastermind and the whole of Gotham really is searching for me then it would be bad if this man recognises me, I think he's a police officer. He returned to full height and presented the item to me, pushing his spectacles back up the bridge of his nose with his other hand. It was a wad of my money and it was obviously an unusually large sum for anyone to be carrying around in hard cash. I stared at it, my face going cold even as the sun beat down on us.

'This yours?'

'Um, yes I think so.' I made a show of dipping my hand into every pocket on my person. The man had raised his eyebrows as he handed the money to me. He looked more suspicious than ever now. I wanted to go; my skin was itching with the desperation to get away from him, like a million cockroaches shuffling around under my skin. Before I had a chance to stutter out any excuses he spoke, smiling softly.

'Well son, I'll let you get on.' He idly pulled his wallet from a pocket, moving towards the coffee shop to the left. 'I'm sure you're very late by now.'

I nodded and said a brief goodbye before marching hastily away from him and the coffee shop he had entered, trying not to turn my head and look back at him. I could feel his eyes on me as I walked, I think he recognised who I am, whoever that may be.

I was of the mind to go straight back to my apartment but I hesitated – it was such a glorious day, there was lots of sun and I was sure that it would last. I was enjoying this sunshine; I could bask in it for an eternity. I glanced around me but didn't see any suspicious strangers giving me funny looks. I felt a little calmer as I headed towards a shopping precinct I had noticed on my earlier, much more relaxed stroll.

Now I hadn't really thought about it as I was shopping, but obviously I was going to have to walk back up all those stairs to my apartment on accounts of the fact that all the elevators were broken. I had a lot of bags with me, bags of food, toiletries, lots of things! I had bought new bed sheets, some necessary items of clothing such as boxers (I really liked the purple and green ones for some reason) and lots of socks (purple and green also, chequered, striped and spotted). I bought a new pillow too; this one was filled with foam so that I wouldn't choke on any more feathers.

Hoisting the lot up the stairs was a nightmare. I could have got really angry again, like I did the other day or this morning when I realised the elevators were broken but I was just too tired. I was exhausted! Interaction with other people was strangely tiring to me. I had been fascinated by all their faces at first but as soon as I had to speak or intermingle with them they suddenly became very boring, grey and... Well, they were just plain boring. Why were they so damned boring? It left me with a pining for some kind of revolution, for a wave of passion to rise over the populace and expose their souls, to expose all the _people,_ not the dreary husks that I had been walking amongst all day. It was kind of depressing in a way. I hope I'm not boring like they are.

Finally I reached the top floor where my apartment was. It was tough going and I had to stop quite a few times on the way but I did it. I dragged myself and my purchases along the corridor to my door. I hadn't even thought to lock it when I left this morning so I just leant upon the handle and fell through, staggering into my kitchen which was still littered with all the papers I had dropped on the floor. I'll pick those up later; I'm rather looking forward to reading more of that story about The Batman and The Joker.

I went into my small lounge and dumped all the plastic bags on that ugly sofa. It would be tricky to replace that I thought as I gazed with distaste at all the cigarette burns and worn, threadbare patches. I'd have to get some people to help me take it up the stairs and they'd wonder why I was (probably illegally) making my abode in an abandoned block of apartments. I sighed. Maybe I could just buy a throw to go over it or something.

Tutting at myself for not having bought anything like that I made myself busy with packing all the food items away in my cupboards, a strangely satisfying activity. I had lots of food now, bags of pasta in every shape and flavour, brown and white rice, loaves and crackers, basics like flour and sugar, things for my refrigerator like milk, eggs, butter and cheese... I suddenly wondered if I had bought too much, some of these things might go off before I get a chance to actually use them up. Oh well. I had bought some microwaveable meals too only to realise that I didn't actually have a microwave, just a stove with dusty hobs. Damn. Well that was okay; I bought tinned oven meals too, so I allocated a cupboard and put them away.

My next mission was to find homes for all the toiletries, underpants and socks I had bought. I grabbed those bags and headed for my bedroom, swinging my arms contentedly and humming a little. I caught a flash of my reflection in that long mirror as I walked through the bedroom and into the bathroom but I tried to ignore it and the shudder that rippled through me at the brief sight of my scars and dark eyes. I quickly arranged all the toiletries into the mirror cabinet above the sink, as meticulously as I had arranged my knives upon the table next to the laptop. Face washing things had to go on the top shelf, graded by size from left to right and body and hair washing things had to go on the shelf underneath, body washes graded by size from left to right and hair washing things graded by size from right to left, so that the little bottles met in the middle. It was good, it was organised and I was in control of them. It annoyed me that there weren't three shelves inside the cabinet so that the body wash and hair wash could have their own shelves, but I'm certain I'll cope. The toothpaste was a special case though, it had its own spot on the sink between the taps with my new toothbrush (green with purple bristles).

Satisfied with the composition I closed the little door and was confronted by the reflection of my face. I stared, still unsure of myself, still not familiar with the curve of my scars and the way they made my cheeks look puffy, the way they made the corners of my mouth turn up. I couldn't get used to my eyes either, they were so dark and they didn't shine, not like that moustache man whose eyes sparkled so much despite the fact that he seemed incredibly tired. There were impossibly dark rings under my eyes. I tried to smile at myself as I had been smiling at other people during the day. To my dismay it came out like a horrid, lopsided grimace. It was as if I was just baring my horrid, yellow teeth, just gnashing them like a loony. No wonder I hadn't got any proper smiles in return today. Well, that nice waitress smiled at me, but that was just part of her job.

I sighed heavily again, moving into my bedroom to put away my new clothes but I faltered in the threshold of the bathroom. My bedroom window is wide open again. The worst thing is that I don't remember if I closed it this morning when I found it open... Considering all the oddness that happened today – am I really a criminal mastermind with the whole of Gotham searching for me? Have I done something really bad? Did I kill someone really important? Maybe I'm a terrorist... But I have cupboards filled with chocolate and nice things, I think I have feelings, not that I've had very long to prove how much feeling I have but I'm sure it's all there. Then again... I also have a horde of knives and a wardrobe of blood stained clothes that I'm not entirely certain belong to me at all...

I think I'm panicking. I have to stop writing, my hand is shaking.


	4. May 28th 30th

**May 28th**

When I first saw the man who has been coming into my apartment I was unnerved, and understandably so as I peered at his dark form moving around through a barely open eyelid, pretending that I was asleep. He was as silent as a dead thing as he deftly slid my window open from the outside, slipped in and paused, breathing steadily. I couldn't see him at this point, being that I was lying on my side facing the other side of the room, gazing blindly through the doorway into my bathroom and then to the side of the doorsill at that huge mirror, just a gleaming slice in the semi-darkness.

I heard him move around the side of my bed and to my utmost horror I felt the end of my mattress sink as he sat upon it. My heart was pounding – what on earth was he doing? I was desperate to turn my head and get a proper look at him but I was terrified of what he would do if he realised I was awake. I heard some faint clicking, artificial things against the pads of gloved fingers...

...He was doing something on my laptop! Not that it means much, if I don't know the passwords then I doubt he does. I felt the bed shift as he leant further over the low-hung table near the end of my bed upon which this laptop is kept, along with the cell phone and the newly arranged knife collection. He sighed. I heard him sit back a little, making my mattress creak. Little bleeping sounds met my ears; he's doing something on the cell phone now. He pressed only a few buttons and then set it softly back in its place on the table.

Confusion and fear was pulsing through me. I couldn't make heads nor tails of the situation – Hell, the situation didn't even have a head or a tail. My already uncertain existence was being thrown into further uncertainty. Terrible possibilities of my true identity were pillaging the borders of my mind and they were marching ever closer, such was the bitterness of the thought that I might in truth be a hunted criminal.

I nearly jolted out of bed in surprise when the man's dark form suddenly sidled into my vision, peering through into my bathroom. I closed my eyes, afraid that he would see me awake, watching him. I heard him move into the bathroom. His boots made a strange noise upon the old linoleum floor. I daringly opened my eyes a little once more, but he was nearly lost in the deeper shadows. He was tall; I could tell that much but his build remained a mystery.

He turned back and l snapped my eyes shut. He cleared his throat lightly and then moved with deliberation around the bed and back to the window he had entered through. A shallow thud and a clunk of metal signalled his departure, but I continued to lay motionless for what felt like hours before I opened my eyes and launched myself at the window, slamming it shut with a shout.

At 3.42am I found myself pacing the apartment filled with rage. I felt raped; I felt that my privacy had been completely nullified.

Does he watch me during the day; follow me when I go out?

Is he just one man, or part of a larger organisation?

**May 30****th**

When I wake up at the ungodly hour of 5.30am every morning I can't help but feel horridly exposed. My window is always open, I doubt that will change anytime soon. I considered nailing it shut, but I thought the window man might become suspicious. I'm sure he would become aggressive if he caught an inkling of my suspicion. I have no idea why I am being... _observed_ by him, or them perhaps, who is to say it is always the same man?

Yesterday I went out again. I was determined to not let this thing unsettle my life, what little evidence of its past I had gleaned and the little I am experiencing presently. I have been thinking about who I might have been before I lost my memory, often drawing up the conclusion that I was little more than a criminal, illustrious perhaps but for all the wrong reasons. I feel this is something I cannot escape; I am beginning to accept it as a fact. It is the mystery of what scale my criminal tendencies existed within that frightens me most. I could handle the thought of having once been a petty sneak-thief, a hot-wirer or hired muscle even, but anything more than that...

...Why are they frightened of me? When I went out yesterday, the 29th that is, I crossed paths with one of the acquaintances from the place where I had my steak meal. Of the three I saw that day he was the most distinguishable, had I cast a fleeting glance at either of the other two I doubt I would have recognised them, but there was no mistaking the straight and broad-bridged nose of this man, the quivering black eyes and small mouth. He was almost rat-like I pondered, as he stared with horror into my face. I knew he recognised me. He was frozen. I didn't really know what to do. Having accepted the possibility of a criminal past I wondered if it was dangerous to be seen in his company, though I did also wonder who would be in more danger, me or him?

He was still staring at me but was not gaping like a fish anymore. I imagined how on earth this man and I came to meet each other before my memory was lost. Wild daydreams chased each other's tails in my head; maybe we were friends once upon a time? Maybe we went to school together, and then tumbled into the crime infested underbelly of Gotham? We were then torn apart perhaps, divided by loyalties to opposing mob lords, forced then to destroy each other's kingdoms in a bloody feud which left him... rattishly nervous and I scarred for life?

As I smiled at my invented history with this man I saw him flinch. I quickly closed my lips, feeling ashamed when I remembered how yellow and rotten my teeth were, but the puckered twist at the corners of my mouth remained. This here is my _friend._

'So...' I began, deciding to tread carefully with my words. He might not remember all the things we've been through together. 'What have you been doing these past... this past week?'

He stuttered and I watched with fascination at his perfect, unscarred lips, how they trembled as he tried to speak.

'Uh... we've uh –' (he paused and turned his head sharply in every direction, obviously paranoid that we were being observed) ' –we've been...'

He trailed off. He seemed utterly dumbfounded by the sight of me. I was grinning stupidly at him once more and judging by previous experiments in the mirror I can guess it's not the most comforting spectacle.

Perhaps another question.

'Tell me...' I said slowly, snaking an arm around his bony shoulders. 'How long have we known each other?' I initiated a lolling gait down the sun-drenched sidewalk. He moved along with me, quaking under my arm.

'N-n-not-not long, Boss.'

I grimaced. _Boss._ And we haven't known each other for very long? Perhaps we're not childhood friends after all.

'_Jack.'_ I said firmly, grinning widely at him, my ship not completely sunk just yet. 'Please – call me _Jack.'_

He attempted to return my smile but I could sense that he was still in a state of pant-pissing wariness. My tone light, I continued to probe him. I suppose I am already meant to know the answers to my questions, but I guess he thinks I'm being rhetorical.

'So how long is not long...?'

'Ah... well I was on the job at the – y'know, the one with the Mayor, I – got shot though. The other day is the first I've seen of you since then.'

I blanched. Once again ice was coursing through me instead of blood. The Mayor? _The Mayor?_ What the Hell have I been doing to the _Mayor?_

Of course, I am being rhetorical with my dark-haired rat friend here.

'That's _correct,'_ I said knowingly, pausing at a crossing, remembering to check for cars before stepping off the sidewalk. 'Well...' I floundered for a moment. I wanted to know more about myself, terrifying though the truth seems to be, shimmering ominously at me through a stubborn mist that refuses to melt away. It's just as well, without the obstinate veil blocking my view the truth may very well blind me, _obliterate_ me even. Despite my ache and fear for the truth I also wanted some company. I seemed to do relatively well in solitude, but even a hermit crab wriggles out of his shell now and then, if only to oust another crustacean from his shell and take it for his own.

I quite like the rat under my arm. A fluttering leaf or a honk of a car horn was enough to make him leap from his skin. He's like a little ticking time bomb. In all that has been happening to me since I woke upon my apartment floor, as strange and valuable as every new discovery is, nothing compares to the unpredictability of a human with a nervous disposition such as this fellow. I gazed over the swamp of beings trundling around us. My rat friend is _not_ a trundling meatbag.

'Let's –'

I nearly said _let's have lunch at my place_ but I don't think the rat would compute, as it were. I licked the corner of my mouth.

'Let's go to... Headquarters.'

'_We have Headquarters?'_ he stammered, sounding quite surprised.

I felt regret nibbling at the base of my skull. He's probably thinking of something very grand.

'Well I say _Headquarters;_ it's just where I stay when I'm... laying low, if you know what I mean.'

I had no idea what I was saying, but he obviously took a degree of understanding from my words. He smirked and nodded. A blast from some angry cab drivers' horns made him jolt madly, his rodent face absurdly contorted.

I laughed at this, a high jagged cackle poured from my lips. I gasped and choked at the foreign sound, masking it with a fit of fake coughing. The rat barely seemed to notice. I peered at him out of the corner of my eye.

'I can't remember your name,' I blurted abruptly.

He stared at me, plainly very confused.

'T-Thomas Schiff,' he murmured cagily. 'Or just... Shifty –'

'_Shifty!'_ I repeated with a shriek of that banshee laughter. I bit my lip to silence myself. 'It suits you.'

My arm had stayed about his shoulder throughout our entire amble across the streets of Gotham and as I guided him around towards the direction of my block of apartments – my castle – I saw with a flicker of dread a familiar set of twinkling bespectacled eyes, gazing intently at me through the window of a coffee shop that I know I have passed by before. I could see the grey moustache ruffling and disappear as the face turned away, disappearing into the gaggle of customers, jostling for their fix of caffeine.

Jack Tanner my friend... and rat-faced Thomas Shifty Schiff, have we made a mistake in being seen together?

____

Shifty seemed so wholly overwhelmed as I led him up the hundreds and hundreds of stairs to my top-floor apartment. As I led him I wasn't particularly sure what we were going to do once we got up there. I was definitely hungry, and I'm sure Shifty is too. Would now be a good time to experiment with my culinary skills? I think an omelette would be a fair feast for a rat.

As we came to the last stretch of stairs I couldn't contain my excitement. I was filling up with childish glee at the thought of having some invited company, someone to play with. I felt like a young boy who had caught a small animal in the back yard or at the park, stealing away with it shrieking desperately in my clutches, intent on having all sorts of fun with it. I could imagine a little blonde boy, me I suppose, running across a sunlit green with a black rat trapped between my small hands. When I arrived at whatever den I must have previously constructed, the rat was dead much to my dismay, asphyxiated by my eager grasp. My head felt a little fuzzy, I suppose it's the exhilaration.

I turned and grinned madly at Shifty constantly as we made our ascent. He faltered everytime.

Eventually we hit the topmost landing; my door was visible at the very end. I all but bounded up to it and blasted straight in – I hadn't locked it.

'Thomas Schiff... _welcome.'_

I gambolled over the threshold, immediately in my kitchen. Shifty followed me in, his black eyes extremely wide. I couldn't say what he might have been expecting, but I'm certain I detected a slight release of tension when he took his first gulp of my humble living quarters, and reasonably normal living quarters if I may say so myself. My tongue rolled madly over the inside of my cheeks. I took him through the small kitchen and into the living room. I had since tidied the apartment. The mountains of ash and the bloodstains and blank writing paper on the floorboards were scrubbed and tidied away. The notes that the previous occupant had made about The Batman character had been hurriedly collected from the kitchen floor where I had spilt them and stacked semi-neatly upon the wooden table. I motioned for Shifty to take the single, frail chair at the table, which he did so, if a little reluctantly. I loomed over him, taking in every detail of his person from the new angle above him. He was hunched awkwardly, appearing more so like a giant, spindly spider in his discomfort than a skittish rat.

'I'm hungry,' I gushed animatedly into his ear, making him jump. 'I'm going to cook something. Are you hungry? What do you want? Omelette? I only really know how to cook omelette, and some other things.'

As with my own eyes when I had stared into them before my mirror, Shifty's watery eyes were like huge black chasms, a pair of haunting voids gaping up at the world. Shifty gets sad sometimes, I can tell just by looking at him – does having eyes like twin gulfs of nothingness denote a sad person?

Am I unhappy?

'I'm hungry!' I barked again. 'I'll make an omelette.'

I darted into the kitchen, quite drunk on exhilaration. Shifty hadn't said a single word in response to my offer of a meal, but I cooked for two anyway.

As the beaten eggs sizzled in the pan I caught the sound of rustling paper. I leant back, peering around the doorframe and saw my guest tentatively rifling through the transcript. I said nothing, it was an excellent piece of entertainment after all, and that much I knew even though I had only had time to glance briefly over two or three pages. Such brilliant tripe! I wish I had thought of it.

When I finished cooking the omelette, slopping it messily onto a plate and carving it in half with a twisted spatula I realised that Shifty had stood from the chair, the transcript clutched tightly in his hands.

'It's done,' I said.

'Notes!' Shifty exclaimed, a peculiar smile on his face. I detected that it was false. His forehead was sweaty and his hands were shaking. The spatula still held aloft in one hand and the plated omelette in the other I swooped into a trench of suspicion. _Notes? _I suppose so; the transcript could hardly be called a final draft. 'I didn't realise you kept written records –'

'_Excuse me?' _My voice emitted as a cold growl that I had never heard before and I nearly dropped the omelette. A scowl remained upon my brow however and my hard gaze might have sliced Shifty's head clean off it had been a tangible force. A chill returned to my blood, though it was quite different from the ice that crept over me in the company of fear.

'I said _excuse me?'_

'It's – these aren't yours?'

'Of course not!' I shouted, that terrible pillow-tearing, knife-flinging rage swelling inside me. I wondered how I could use a spatula and an omelette to kill a man, but hastily banished these thoughts from my mind – Shifty is my new friend, my pet rat. I clenched my ruined teeth. 'They were left by the previous tenant of the apartment.'

'Oh,' he stammered. 'Well, I'm sorry... I'm not hungry anymore, I-I think I'll ah, I'll go shall I?'

He all but threw the transcript over the table and scurried through the apartment in that mad, rat-like manner of his, squeezing uneasily past me in the small kitchen space to reach the front door. He ripped it open and fled. I swear upon all my days, those forgotten as well as those recently had, that I have never seen a human move to uncannily fast.

A stench of fear remained amongst the oil and egg that lingered in the apartment.

When Shifty's thundering footfalls in the stairwell had finally died away I moved over to the mess he had left, the plate of omelette still in my hand. I leant over the pages that had landed face up on the table and squinted at some scribbles and diagrams I hadn't gone over before. I saw garish characters pencilled messily upon the cheap paper, coloured lines jabbing in every direction. Two men had been drawn, one I recognised as the caped Batman, coiled and contorted, rough pencil marks expressing agony upon his face as a huge knife was plunged into his groin and the opposing character, whose rake-like hand was directing the knife grinned madly with red painted lips and huge black eyes. A sludge-green cluster of scrawls signified his hair and Batman's blood stained his crudely drawn waistcoat of green. A purple jacket flared out behind him in mockery of The Batman's own tattered cape.

In messy handwriting underneath – the same as that of the detailed notes, the same as that inside my journal – was written in oversized lettering: THE JOKER VS. THE BATMAN


End file.
